there are no more guns in the valley
by billielurked
Summary: After the downfall of the Van der Linde gang and the subsequent near-death of Arthur Morgan, it's up to Arthur and Charles Smith to find one another again- along the way facing threats of aristocratic werewolves, the jersey devil, the trials of mutual pining, the haunts of the south, and the ever-present debts of their deeds.
1. a simple life, a beautiful death

I kneel into a dream where I am good & loved. I am good. I am loved. My hands have made some good mistakes. They can always make better ones.

(Natalie Wee, Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines.)

Nature towards the north was as beautiful as it was unforgiving. The chill invaded her every sense; the moon hung above, cool and blue, casting sharp shadows across the trees surrounding her. Through forced habit Charlotte Balfour checked for her gun, the string of bullets kept round her belt, and for the hunting knife kept strapped to her thigh.

It wouldn't be right to live so long and through so much, only to be taken by surprise by some creature without any protection within reach.

"Alright, Missy," she spoke to her horse, her voice so quiet she herself could scarcely hear it. "I think it is _high_ time we ladies turn in for the night."

She had been down in Annesburg restocking supplies with her wagon. Unknowingly, she had passed into Murfree Country not far from the hills, seeking more herbs and plants to store over the season should she have need of them. It never hurt to be prepared. It never hurt. Fortunately luck was on her side, and she was left blissfully unaware of the distasteful local folk. Not like she'd been to town long enough at any time to hear the gruesome rumors of the brood - and more recently the _gang_ \- who holed up in the area. All she knew to keep an eye out for were the animals of the wild and the plants it consisted of.

Wild mint, yarrow, Indian Gooseberry, wild carrots, Alaskan ginseng, creeping thyme- Charlotte immersed herself in the careful, precise process of tracking down any herb she knew what to do with, if found in a properly large amount. Were the patches too sparse she'd leave them to grow further, noting their location on her increasingly tangled and complex hand-drawn map. The knees of her trousers were caked thick with mud, green and red stains trailing up her forearms. Missy's saddlebags bulged due to the mass of greenery and plumage that protruded from within; the horse had a naughty streak and often had to be chided for taking a particularly interested sniff at some plant or another. Charlotte loved her for it.

Looking once over her wagon full of herbs, food, new clothes, medicine and supplies stocked for the season, Charlotte felt a swell of pride in her ability to take care of herself. She wouldn't be getting sick this winter or dying of starvation, no, she would not. While a certain someone may have taught her the basics of hunting and trapping, she had long been familiar with many other valuable skills needed to make it by, out in the wilderness. She was no stranger to herbology.

They'd been out here quite long, now. Really only a day or two but lord above, if it did not feel so much longer. Time seemed to stretch thinner and thinner every day of her life she spent alone. There was nothing inherently wrong with isolation; she'd grown accustomed to it. But it did...it could have a certain…._effect_, on a person. Loneliness made you strange.

She started unhitching Missy from the wagon, the horse slumping in relief. The night was long and flush with stars. Wildlife rustled far off in the thick underbrush, the trees swaying to and fro with hushed, quiet sighs. The sky was vast and black and Charlotte found it harder and harder to stay asleep, as of late. After some hours restless dozing she awoke, tossing and turning uneasily on her bedroll, Missy watching her every move with increasingly exhausted eyes. Charlotte sat up.

Something was going on.

A disturbance up the hill. Up, high and far on the cliffside that hung over the wide valley. Not so far from Charlotte, per say, but far from the rest of the world; in the shallow silence of nighttime, the muddled and distant sounds of what seemed to be yelling, maybe even gunshots, echoed out to reach her. One hand flew out to clutch her shotgun. It was barely her business, but she figured…were she mistaken she'd simply come back down to her camp. Impulse tempted her, curiosity tugging insistently at her to stand, to collect herself and investigate the disturbance. She couldn't sleep in the first place. Leaving it lie wouldn't do her any good. Charlotte desperately tried to rationalize it as she stepped over the bedroll and patted Missy, urging her into awareness. "Come on, girl. I know it's late, come on."

Spurring her horse into a quick trot, Charlotte picked her way carefully up and around the hill. She took the long way, careful not to send any rocks or debris sliding down the side of the thin dirt road to alert of her presence. The road was long. Camp seemed to fade farther and farther away, the thin plume of blackened smoke the only sign of the way back. The yelling and hoofbeats grew louder, fading in and out in short bursts before it all but disappeared. She froze in place, knees tight to Missy's broad sides as she listened. It felt like minutes- though could only have been seconds before the silence filled with the sound of a struggle. Charlotte urged Missy into the forest, noting quickly that daybreak was not so far off. Her curious confidence eroded with every step. She'd done foolish things, oh, the foolish things she had done still lingered on her mind and drove her nights into sleeplessness but probably never anything so foolish as climbing towards a mountain before the break of dawn following the sounds of a fight. Who would do that kind of thing? Of course only Charlotte Balfour, the fool on a fool's errand.

She dared not break through the treeline. She heard it, then. _Chaos_. Gunshots rang out rapid-fire, loud cracks and bangs echoing out across the valley. Light flickered here and there among the underbrush far above. She could see the dark outline of some caves, a tall, stacked hill hanging over the wilderness, framed by an endless expanse of thick trees interspersed with riders on horseback. Quickly, Charlotte dismounted, urged Missy further off into the woods and crouched in cover. Whoever these men were, they were clearly dangerous. Anyone with hands and mouth could be. Those with guns just weren't shy to hide it.

Things quieted for a time. She could scarcely make out two silhouettes up on the ridge, grappling. Grunts and shouts echoed out, made unintelligible by the distance. Charlotte didn't know how long she spent there, hunched over and trembling, straining to hear anything which might guide her where to go. The men still on horseback circles around; she could make out the silhouettes and flashing glimpses of their lanterns just so. They were circling her way, planning to swing down and around. She huddled closer to the tree, and silently prayed that Hashem spare her.

They did not come for her.

Time passed and the violence faded away, the mild sounds of nature filling the air once again. Two silhouettes vanished from the mountain, making their way down. Where was the third?

The men on horses were somewhere off behind her now, circling inwards, closer. For now her only choice was to go towards the cliff and, were she strong enough, to climb. Curiosity gnawed at her just as her instinct for survival pushed her to go up towards the one place the men on horseback wouldn't expect a soul to go; upwards to the site of the crime, where the perpetrators had just fled.

The climb was rough. Stones slipped beneath her uneasy footing; she was a survivalist now, sure, but certainly not a mountain climber. She couldn't take Missy with her much further than the first ridge, where she lovingly insisted she stay put.

The final cliff stretched out before her, this the space where she believed to have seen the strangers walking. Sure and real as daylight, she saw him. The third silhouette. Frail, weak, the beaten man slumped to the ground and slid down to a more comfortable position, lying flat on his back with his gaze turned towards the sun. He was pale, washed out and sickly, with a layer of shining red coating him from the chest downwards; spatters of it stained his lips and the rough surface of his beard was caked with thick, slowly drying blood. Charlotte shuddered to think of what had been done to him. A rattling cough burst from him, interrupting the otherwise peaceful quiet of daylight. The sun rose high over the horizon. He took no notice of her loud, clumsy movements. He was elsewhere; he was giving up. She straightened, rushing from her hiding place in the underbrush to go to him. That cough was..._alarming_. It sounded all too familiar. With steady hands, she took her neckerchief and pulled it up to cover her mouth. It wouldn't do to catch his illness, no, it wouldn't do at all.

She'd come up here expecting a confrontation, or perhaps a corpse. Not this. Even as well educated as she was in medicine, Charlotte was not particularly keen on nurturing strange, dirty men sprawled on mountain tops back to health.

Still. She wasn't heartless.

He went slack. His body was limp and fragile as she moved to stand over him, quickly considering her options. She might not be able to carry him- getting him onto her horse would prove rather difficult. There was no time to build any contraption on which to pull him by. Then again, he was thin and withered by illness, and she was strong from months of garden-tending and hunting. She reckoned she might even be taller.

Then came the shock. Cold and quick and gone as soon as it came, she knew all at once just who this man was; none other than Arthur Morgan, the man who had taught her to fend for herself in this bloody old wilderness. He had certainly seen better days. This might take the title as the _worst_, were he lucky enough to live through it. What had he gone through, to come to such a state that she could barely even recognize him? Disease colored his pallid flesh, his face worn and roughened by more than just the weather. Dark bruises wound down his skin in patchy blotches. His left hand held a deep cut across the palm that bled quickly, presumably from grabbing onto a stone or something of the sort. A puddle of crimson surrounded him. This was more than just the aftermath of a fight- this was a broken man, whittled down to the barest functions of life. She whistled to her horse. This was someone who would die very quickly were she to dawdle. Her heart clenched to see her friend in such a state.

She sprang into action. "Mr. Morgan," she urged, a gloved hand firmly patting his cheek and then, "Arthur!"

He couldn't answer. His head lolled to one side, eyes unfocused as he blinked, squinted up at her. He grunted. "Eloquent as ever, I see. Don't worry, Arthur, I'm not going to let you come to any harm. Just please, hold on."

She threw her overcoat onto the ground beside him before roughly rolling him onto it. Thank goodness she'd finally become accustomed to lifting heavy things. Arthur barely stirred. Then, with a strength she hadn't known she possessed, Charlotte pulled him along on the coat down the less steep edge of the hill, whistling to Missy to come around.

The horse obliged. Missy trotted a bit closer, huffing loudly in distress at the scene before her; Charlotte let go of the jacket she'd used to drag him and instead moved to grab her horse's reins, easing her closer. She leaned down and tugged firmly at her right foreleg, pulling it back and in towards her hindleg. The movement tipped the horse at an angle. "Come on Missy, let's go girl." A soft whinny. The animal chose to comply, tilting and tilting 'til she fell comfortably to her side, calmly lying down. Charlotte took a rushed second to cheer her on before turning back to the dying man.

"Your turn. Come on now, breathe deep. This isn't going to be very nice." He groaned once more. She wondered if he even knew what was happening. Then with one great, heaving tug, she pulled him over Missy's saddle, murmuring comforting words the entire time. Whether she was talking to the man or the horse wasn't quite clear. They both seemed to need it.

"Where…." Arthur trailed off, falling into a fit of rough coughing as he weakly clung to Missy's side. Charlotte wanted to be sure he stayed conscious for as long as possible. She grasped Missy by the reins and slowly began leading the horse back down the hill, now more careful of the precarious path and all the scattered, slippery rocks along the way. Her chest swelled with relief once the plume of smoke from her camp came into sight again, along with the promise of her half-full wagon, perfect to transport him in. She'd been right to spend her day so far from home, restocking food and hunting for herbs and medicinal plants- they'd certainly come in handy now. This would be nothing if not near-impossible.

Missy kept on her loyal, obedient way. Arthur barely moved a muscle.

Even as a small child, Charlotte had always lived a very private life within herself. Few came in and few came out. How many years had it been since she'd spoken to her mother, or her father? Her dear late husband had been one of the few allowed in. Even her living space itself was more often than not reserved only for her.

But Arthur was her friend. She trusted him; he had, in many ways, saved her life. She owed him the same courtesy.

Reaching back to check on him, Charlotte took gentle hold of Arthur's uninjured hand and held it between one of her own.


	2. keep your dreams light

Can you lay your hand on my forehead?

At the crack of dawn, I am ashamed.

(_Johnathan_; Christine & the Queens + Perfume Genius.)

Halfway to the Grizzlies and the roads only became rougher to ride; and ride they did, from dawn 'til dusk with only breaks to tend to Taima and Amma as needed, or for water or food. Amma was a good horse- slow and steady, strong as an ox and stubborn as one too. "That's my girl...not much longer," Arthur hummed against her broad neck, leaning down for a thorough pat. "We'll rest soon."

He and Charles hadn't spoken much on the ride. The world was big; the mountains bigger. Colorful birds and rabbits fattened by the summer flitted through the trees and crossed the thin roads. The trees seemed to grow taller, higher, thicker and more dense as they neared their destination. The sky remained its familiar cool blue, dashed by tones of soft pink as night rose in the air.

Arthur felt calmer in the presence of his friend- he hoped Charles felt the same. The horses breathed. The terrain turned rough; road-dust clouded his eyes.

"Lets rest here."

The horses obliged as Charles led them up the hill and into a clearing in the dense trees. Cut off from the road and safely encircled by the forest, on the embankment by a creek they dismounted, unpacked, laid out the bed rolls across the fire from one another.

Night draped itself over the camp. The fire was slow to warm. Arthur saw how Charles shuffled closer to it, the mildest tremble to his arm as the coolness set in. "Take this," he said, stood, threw him the spare blanket he kept on Amma during longer rides. He took it and wrapped it around himself, his arms resting loosely on his knees. "Thanks Arthur."

He didn't respond, just grunted and sat across from him. He cooked the rabbits they'd shot on the road today- one of considerably better quality than the other thanks to Charles' skill with a bow. The flesh crackled, the flame spat. Arthur might not have been a particularly good cook, but he was certainly efficient.

Hunting trips always took so long with them. They liked to take their time as they searched for just the right hunt, one really worth bringing back. Part of it was the getting away.

There was a lot to get away from, these days.

Sitting cross the fire from him, amongst the pleasant crackling of sparks and distant whistling of birds overhead, Arthur felt calm.

Calmer than usual, at least. The trouble these days could keep any man on edge.

Time passed them by. Arthur eventually moved to pull out a small carving he'd been working on from his satchel- he wasn't keen on drawing in his journal when in close quarters with other people, but was too restless to just sit. Nothing to do with his hands. It chewed at him. He dug into the neck of it with his carving knife for some time, whittling away piece by careful, precise piece.

Silence stretched out comfortably between them. Charles organized his pack, discarding some of the dead weight he carried for the ride tomorrow. Then he came to Arthur's side of the fire, peering appraisingly over his shoulder as he worked.

"Give that here," Charles spoke quietly, taking Arthur by surprise yet again. His finger near slipped, just short of another cut on the thumb. Charles crouched beside him. "If you don't mind me looking."

"Sure." He scratched idly at the back of his neck, suddenly glad of the shelter his hat provided. It wasn't much of anything; a rough little half-carved imitation of a bear propped up on its hindlegs, face still just a featureless triangle bulging forth. He turned it this way and that, inspecting every inch for the finer details, finally holding it out at a distance for the grand image. Charles nodded slowly, ran a finger down the slope of one side. "Go a little easier on your cuts here. Small, quick movements. It'll make indents like fur."

"Alright.." He swallowed, holding out his hand. "..Thank you, Charles. Ain't much, I know."

"It's fine work." He handed it back to him, taking Arthur's hand in his own and gently folding the small carving into his palm. One hand covered his for just a second too long. "You've improved."

Arthur flinched away out of instinct- instantly missed the closeness and flashed a quick, apologetic smile. The air here was cold, crisp. He hoped any redness of his face would be attributed to the chill. Charles just looked at him. Arthur didn't know what to do with his hands. He rummaged around his mind for something to change the subject to.

"Ah, I've been meaning to say. Those Germans, back, ah, all those weeks ago." He paused, chewed his tobacco, spat. "You was...you was real kind to them. You're good to most anyone you haven't got a gun to."

"They were innocent folks."

"Sure, I know. Decent folks. I acted like a pig-headed ass back there."

"Yeah."

Arthur snorted. Didn't know why this was still on his mind, but couldn't seem to shake it off. He set aside his carving, kept his eyes trained on his boots, shuffling them against the red of the sand. If he was remembering right, the Torah said about thirty or more times that one should love strangers, and only once to love your neighbor. Considering his devout loyalty to the gang in comparison to his unwillingness to help those folk...well, he supposed that was a lesson he had yet to learn. "You're a good man, Charles."

His companion didn't seem to know what to make of that. Offering no response, he just settled in to sit comfortably beside him, nodded. Elbows on knees, chin on his hands, still and quiet as he stared into the flames. He couldn't have been more than two feet away.

They watched the flames go lower, lower, 'til Arthur flicked a cigar into the midst of it, a stick in hand, nudging the kindling back to life. A thought gripped Arthur so fiercely that he couldn't help but voice it.

"Y'know, I thought you would have moved on by now."

A quick glance. "You want me to?"

"No. No, not at all." Arthur turned his head in avoidant pause. "Y're- y're a good man to have around. I just figure..you'd do alright in your own."

"I did that for a long time. I'm done with it. Stay for the same reasons you do." He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, staring at the ground. "Why?"

Arthur took to distraction, scratching at the mud caking one of his boots. "Guess I'm just wonderin' what exactly it is keepin' us all together. How to keep us going."

Only then did Charles glance up at him again. He didn't meet his gaze often but when he did- oh, when he did, it was a fierce one, one that seemed to claw its way right into the deep of you. "Where do you think this is all going to go? Where will it end?"

It was too big of a question for him. He pressed the heel of his boot hard into the groove of his thigh. "I don't know, Charles. I reckon we've got to trust and push through."

"Trust who?"

As if it were _obvious_, "Dutch."

"And who else?"

August, September, October - everything gone wrong and nowhere left to run. A camp of hungry mouths to feed, mouths full of fear and complaints, the perpetual sense of fear bubbling just below every one of their wary dispositions. What worse could come of them now? He reckoned, quite a lot worse, that's what. Didn't figure he knew who to trust; certainly not himself. He might trust Tilly, Abigail, John, Miss Grimshaw, Sadie, Mary-beth and Karen- he might trust Charles. Gruffly he replied; "Each-other."

No response. He didn't quite expect one, really. Feeling scrutinized beneath the other man's steady stare, Arthur shifted, nose wrinkled, heaved himself to his feet with a groan. "Think it's high time we got some rest. We'll move out early tommorow, yeah?"

A nod. "You sleep well, Arthur."

How his voice was so gentle, he couldn't figure. Arthur found his own to be far too rough to answer in kind. He only nodded, face alight with warmth as he tucked his chin to his chest and propped his hat by his pillow, not far from the guns. He thought himself too clumsy with that sort of simple kindness. Pulling off his boots, carefully setting aside his hat and tucking himself into the bedroll, Arthur couldn't help but cast a look towards his friend.

The man in question was staring right at him.

The fire crackled. Goosebumps rose on his arms- _from the cold_, he told himself, and stared back. He couldn't hold it long, felt too frightened by the implication of such an intimate moment even to try. He wondered if his companion was angry with him. Was that stare accusatory? Had Charles caught onto something Arthur hadn't even been conscious of? Finally he rolled to his other side, tucked his arms in against himself in some feeble imitation of a tight embrace and shut his eyes so tightly that light burst behind his eyelids. The cicadas sang their mind-numbing, droning hum 'til they too faded deep into the back of his consciousness.

..

Arthur woke up with a jolt. The thin sheets that covered him were tangled 'round his legs, halfway thrown to the ground; cold sweat chilled the back of his neck. The dream- or rather the _memory-_ faded as his vision cleared. Panicked and afraid, breath coming to him in great rattling wheezes, he took a better look at his surroundings.

He was in Charlotte Balfour's cabin.

He was alive.

He was alone.

First came the pain. It rolled up him in a wave, from head to toe and back again. He felt feverish, hot and cold, repeatedly awoken from his dreary doze by a persistent stinging pain in his already constricted chest. It felt as though someone were gripping him by the upper body and squeezing 'til he had little but a rough, spittled rattle left to release. He didn't know how long he lay there on that bed, wrapped tightly in sheets and bare of his gunbelt or hat. Time lost all meaning or significance. There was only pain, and the desperate desire to simply fade away. To let go. It was like trying to sleep and finding no rest; trying to squeeze your eyes shut tight as they might go, praying for the release of unconsciousness, but never finding it. Arthur felt lost.

The cabin creaked and groaned as rain poured down around it in sheets. The windows were blurred from view; it might've been a flood, though he couldn't've been sure. In fact most _everything _was blurry- this wasn't the first time he'd awoken in such a stupor, lost in his own body, but he'd certainly not expected to experience it once more. No, he'd thought himself done with the lot of that. Done with the suffering.

No such luck.

He tried to think back on how he'd gotten here. How long was the ride? Had he been aware for any of it? Moments came to mind- a fist to the face. The smell of a campfire, the stench and deep sting of a wound being cauterized. Firm, slender hands dragging him onto a horses back. The night, discolored by the blur of illness. Confusion. Anger. Exhaustion. Micah's kicks to the gut, and all the relentless hits he'd taken.

Dutch, leaving him for dead. Not even for the first time.

And Charlotte- her, of course. Though he was apprehensive of the word itself, _friend_, she was one, and a trusted one at that. One who had evidently come to save him when he least deserved it. Did he ever deserve it?

His eyes stung. The house felt too empty, panic and paranoia gnawing through the haze of his exhaustion. Arthur tried to speak to call out to her or to anyone- gripped tightly at the sheets as painful coughs wracked his body. Punishment for even trying. It felt like he was drowning in his own lungs, every inhale a desperate begging to breathe. Where was Charlotte? Was he alone here? Distress gripped him. Gruff and muffled, "Ma'am?"

Each half gulp of oxygen felt like sandpaper in his throat, the air itself cloying, too thick to draw inwards, all petrichor and moisture. Fear curdled in his mind. His thoughts turned sour and angry. What strange things terror could do to a person.

A distant door slammed. A flurry of noise, a curse, a woman's voice- Arthur gurgled and slurred as he tried to force himself to sit upright, only to collapse flat onto his back yet again, chest sore, spasming in time with each rattling wheeze.

"Arthur?"

The door was flung open, revealing a rain-drenched, trouser-clad, wide-eyed Charlotte. She rushed in before freezing in place, taking two deliberate steps back, and quickly peeling off her completely soaked overcoat and throwing it indiscriminately onto the ground somewhere. He was too bleary to pay much attention but it seemed she'd dunked her hands into a bucket propped near the door, for whatever reason. The sight of her near frightened him, what with the bandana tightly wound over her mouth and nose and all, but it wasn't hard to recognize the clear sound of her voice. "Mr. Morgan, you're awake. Stay still, please, don't try to sit just yet- unless of course you're to be sick, which case just lean much as you can. There's, ah, a bucket thataways, on your right."

He heeded her words and stayed flat on his back, though he surely hadn't the strength to look and check anyways. Mrs Balfour was on him in a minute, firm hands checking at the pulse on his neck and wrist and to press at his forehead. Checking his temperature, he reckoned, lacking the capacity to question her on any of it. The prone man lay still and stifled his pain as best he could.

"I'm sorry for not being here when you woke up, I am, I-"

"No.. s'fi...s'fine.."

"What's hurting you, Arthur? How can I help?"

Arthur didn't know. He couldn't identify what pain was most notable, could scarcely tell limb from limb in the numb, achy blur that was his body. He felt a foot above himself. Stuck hovering, short of breath, absent and sore. He tried to clear his throat, the weak attempt reducing him to a cough that was thick with blood as it was loud.

"That cough. I might be able to help with that. Indian Gooseberry juice mixed with honey, it- it might just do the trick."

He didn't know what to do. Arthur felt useless. Limp. Deadweight. He resorted to nodding.

"I'll be right back. Now, you don't go anywhere, you hear me?"

Arthur snorted. Waved a hand. Sunk deeper into the hard mattress.

The days dragged on; Arthur barely spoke. Charlotte was glad of her substantial stocks of food- nothing particularly good, all varying levels of tasteless to mildly salty- but food was food. Arthur faded in and out of consciousness as the hours passed, never seeming to be completely coherent. He spoke of strange things in his dreams as he tossed and turned. She found herself lacking just as much sleep as he, lying wide-eyed until daylight listening for the sounds of a cough or the call of her name, feeble with embarrassment.

She knew well enough never to step foot in the room maskless and never to step out without washing her hands.

Some days were better than others, her cures of garlic and indian gooseberry, mint tea, walnuts, garlic or black pepper all varying in their effectiveness. For a long time, he could speak only little and then very hoarsely. He waited for his body to have some mercy on him, and waited, and waited. Charlotte was no stranger to illness or to caring for those afflicted by it. She knew it well, better than she should have liked to in fact. The fever was harder to care for- he would rock and sway in place or thrash in his bed, driven to thick bloody coughs by the intensity of his condition, gripping on to consciousness only enough to groan and to beg that she let him die. Sometimes she considered it.

But she couldn't. She had already failed her husband, her best friend; could she bear to lose another? Sleep already evaded her most nights, even when there wasn't a sick man moaning and crying in the room just over. He usually didn't remember that part when he woke up. Or at least she thought he didn't, though she wouldn't have put it past him to hide it out of embarrassment. Arthur possessed a great capacity for shame.

Some days are better than others, yes. Some, he awoke asking to sit on the porch in the sun, one of the only requests of his which she encouraged. The two of them would stumble out onto the porch, the small, dark-haired woman struggling to heave him into the wooden armchair out front. He would sit there for hours most days, staring at nothing, letting the sun shine on his face. On a Wednesday where he wasn't feeling near death's door, he asked humbly if he might bother her for a couple of sheets of paper. She happily obliged- Charlotte was an introverted woman for the most part, and believed him to be much the same. Having the space to put one's thoughts, unbothered and private, was important perhaps not for physical healing but for the mental part of things. She watched him then with the journal she gave. She was glad when he finally began to draw. He drew and drew until his body became too weak to hold him up. He would slump against the wall, head tilted to the fading sunlight, feebly asking her with that sad look in his eyes if she would come help him back inside. Eventually he didn't have to ask anymore.

He seemed to want to compensate for the trouble he had caused her. Arthur would often ask her questions about her own life, few too personal, asking if there were things he might be able to help her with around the farm once he was no longer, as he put it, sick as a dog and hotter than a whore in church. Arthur would often offer his favorite tips and tricks. Usually ways to hitch a horse right or to fix issues in the house. He had little advice to give on the matters of cooking or cleaning, but the man could certainly detail all the necessary parts to assemble a table or to pitch a tent. She grew well accustomed to his company. Charlotte did not think herself to be the affectionate type, or perhaps not affectionate to the woes of men she scarcely knew, but Arthur had somehow come to hold an important place in her heart. Even when he was hunched over a bucket and she was forced to hold back his long swathes of hair, Charlotte didn't mind him. She joked that she might cut it in his sleep, only to laugh at his distressed yowl of protest.

Three weeks he lived with her, sometimes up all night thrashing and crying, unable to breathe, choking down the cups of green, mint, and indian gooseberry teas, health cure and ginseng that she forced upon him which he said, no offense meant, tasted like slop in a cup. What flattering manners he possessed. More than once, she wondered if he might die before daybreak. Late at night when he lie breathing so barely that she could tell only when her hand was held close enough to his mouth to feel it, she wondered. Dead bodies were heavier than live ones, and Charlotte remembered how hard it had been to drag Cal out to the yard to bury him. How hard it had been to bring Arthur here. Where would she put him? Would she dig a hole for him too, next to the grave of her husband? Just a row of good, dead, sick men who she could not fix.

She tried to think of better things. Once they had come to that level of trust, she sat by him as he lay in his bed one evening after dinner and asked about his journal. He said he had written very little, and that there was nothing of interest inside. Charlotte quipped that it was high time he show her something interesting, before she got bored enough to go back to the forest to hunt, or to find a more amusing dying man to bother.

And so, they got to talking.

"And this, who's this handsome lady here? A spark of yours?" Charlotte asked, gesturing to the rough sketch he'd done of Sadie, her name written in cursive beside it. She looked tough, with a round nose and bright eyes, a jaw set like steel and brows steeper and more threatening than the Grizzlies themselves. There was a great attention to detail in the work. She wondered how much of her countenance could be attributed to his stylization and how much spoke truth. Sadie was a very handsome woman.

Arthur shifted his weight to his right side, laughing with just the barest note of discomfort in his tone. "Oh, no…" he spoke, drifted off. Charlotte only stared. He cleared his throat and cast a quick glance to the window and then back at her, then the sketch. "No. I reckon...she and I have a great many things in common, but a romantic inclination for the likes of one other ain't among 'em."

Charlotte paused. His words carried much more weight than they may have to any other who had not had such conversations before. Her fingers brushed over the charcoal along Sadie's brow, trailing to her neck, where they stopped. Her tone was careful. "I have had such.. such...inclinations, myself."

"Oh."

She continued to flip through the pages of sketches, noting the beauty and detail which went into each work. What strange secrets this Mr Morgan did harbor. Having heard no protest to the direction of this conversation, she quietly continued, figuring there was little a sick man could or would be willing to do were she mistaken in their shared preferences. "When did you first come to understand this about yourself, if I might be so bold as to ask?"

He stared at the floor for a moment. "I think I… had to figure it out, oh, a couple of times. First when I was a boy and hadn't any idea what was'n what weren't the norm- learned the hard way that there's some questions you can't ask just anybody." Cleared his throat. "Later on I got around to readin'. Dutch put me onto it, though I didn't much like the material. Acted dumb just to avoid having to admit it. Hosea saw right through me, got me a bunch of books. Richard Henry Dana, Evelyn Miller, Emily Dickinson even- a, uh, _Something_ Wheatley, some Walt Whitman, among others- liked them all just fine, but found some of Whitman's work particularly...memorable. Was'bout seventeen then. Seventeen, none too decent, much too stupid."

"I can't imagine you ever having been stupid, Arthur Morgan. Indecent, yes. You just admitted to me you like poetry, the likes of Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman no less- now what kind of hick fool do you know that indulges in such things?"

"Fair point," He laughed, cackled almost. A dark flush colored his cheeks and he turned his face away in what she could only identify as embarrassment. "You and I ain't the only ones I know of. Among outlaws, it's almost common practice. Most of the girls. Few of the fellers. We ain't alone out here."

Arthur had a nostalgic kind of smile on his face- though still seemed on edge, as if frightened of what his words might draw from her, but she knew him to be a curious man. He coughed again before asking quietly; "You was married to a man a long time, weren't you, ma'am?"

"Charlotte," she corrected, and he nodded. His question lacked any accusatory tone. She tried to tame her nerves. Charlotte glanced up at the framed photo of herself and Cal, still displayed on the wall. "Yes. But I love women nonetheless."

Arthur smiled. "As I do handsome fellers."

They laughed together for a moment, happily sharing the newfound understanding between them.

He continued. "Your husband, Cal, did he know?"

"He was the same as you." She blinked, then, surprised for the first time in years to have said it aloud. Her quick glance found only a serious nod from Arthur, though, entirely unbothered. Charlotte continued. "He'd heard things could be better in the west. Was caught, once, in a… city establishment where…well, his reputation came into question, and the west where- where bachelor's marriages and the like are not altogether uncommon… you understand, I'm sure. Nonetheless. We were happy. Very happy. He was my best friend."

"Mmhm." He cleared his throat once more, voice still rough with illness. She absently tucked the bandana more tightly around her face, then moved on to keep flicking slowly through the pages of his journal, taking time to admire some longer than others as she went. "I had the same idea, once. More like twice, though the first, Mary, was a- some foolish try to prove myself, thinkin' maybe if I could just live as was expected'a me I might be a better man than I know I am. I made a fool of myself and caused us both more pain than needed. I broke her heart."

"And the second?"

Arthur swiped at his face with his unbandaged hand, sighing. "Eliza. This waitress I... I didn't love her, but I cared'bout her. Again a foolish test at livin' like somethin' I ain't. Wanted to see the best for her. Got her and our son killed by neglect. Thought to myself often that I'd be better than my father were I given the circumstances t'prove it, but I might've done worse. I might've."

Charlotte had no words to coddle the regrets of a failed father. Those matters were his and his alone to work through. She knew her own too well, and knew all about the sore spot of an empty seat at the table could leave you with all your life. Whoever his son and wife had been, she would think of them during her prayer.

Still, he was her friend and had clearly worked hard to redeem himself elsewhere. She tried for empathy. "I'm sorry that happened to them."

He hummed. "Did you ever plan to have children?"

"No. I never wanted to be a mother, not really. I can scarcely fend for myself out here- imagine if I had more mouths to feed." She caught the flicker of guilt in his expression.

"What brought you out here with him, then?"

Charlotte stared. They'd come upon this shared kinship and on account of his kindness, she couldn't fathom that he might yet change his opinion of her for something more sour, but the possibility was always unnerving. She wound her hands together in her lap. "Cal and I- well, when we were young- he loved men. And he thought me to be one, myself, and loved me. It wasn't until a dozen or so years ago that I was honest with myself on being a woman."

Arthur nodded slowly. She swallowed. "He was very kind, as I'd been kind to him. Helped me with things. He understood better than most, and saw me all at once for what I always had been. So- so though I wasn't inclined towards men myself once I'd come to that realization, I still felt safe by him, and him by me. A regular couple up in the mountains. We certainly looked the part to strangers, should it have ever come into question. Though I feel my image of being a good housewife is only a very thin veneer!"

"I think you've been doin' a swell job. You're a quick learner, Charlotte- and good at carin' for others. Among other things." Arthur smiled reassuringly. No judgement in his eyes, only warmth.

"Thank you."

"I mean no offense, but I didn't know you knew medicine, n'all."

Charlotte laughed. "Mr _Morgan_! I may not have known my way around a gun, but that's no implication of my other skills."

He held up his hands in self defense, surrendering to her infectious laugh despite the cough that interrupted it. "Course not! S'pose I'm just curious where you learned all this."

"Speaking of…." She mumbled, and reached out for his bandaged left hand, giving it a thorough once over. "We should change this soon."

"Alright."

Charlotte hummed as she stood, sliding open the medical case she kept stored beneath his bed. With her left ankle she nudged the bucket of salted water closer, dipping the fresh gauze into it before draping it over the edge of the tin box to dry before she applied it. Leaning back on her stool she met his eyes again, waiting. Gently, she rested her elbows on the edge of the bed. "I went to college. Medical college."

"Huh. An educated woman, then."

"Very." She paused, blinked. "I have the qualifications of a Doctor."

Arthur looked at her with wide eyes. "S'pose I should've been callin' you Doctor Balfour all this time, then?"

"No, no, not at- not at all. I've no practice, no title, no business. It's not acknowledged around these parts. Regardless, I'm a better writer than I am a doctor. I don't even have patients," Charlotte glanced quickly at him. "With the exception of one, I suppose. Besides. We're familiar with one another's- well, I won't say _christian_ names. We can leave off the formalities."

Arthur snorted, rolling his head back onto the pillow. "Mmhm. Why haven't you started nothin'? As y'can see there's no shortage of sickly fools around these parts."

"I _can_ see that." Deciding the bandages were dry enough, she gestured that he give her his healing hand, slowly starting to unwind the gauze. He hissed as she worked. Coughed. A deep scowl settled into his features, still sallow and bruised, discolored by illness. He still wasn't eating much. He had been a rather burly man the first time she'd seen him- there was a clear difference to his stature. A certain frailty which did not suit his brutish disposition. "I don't know, Arthur. Why haven't you taken up a career in banking? You certainly know your way around them."

The jab dug a bit deep, though he still had the humor in him to laugh, talking to distract from the pain in his palm as she washed it. Served him right, she thought, a tad bitter still over the matter of her medical degree. "You insult me, Charlotte, implyin' I'd get my hands dirty like that. Only thing worse'n a bank's a hornets nest, though I-" He coughed, "I reckon I'd be gladder among the hornets."

With a grin firm on her face, Charlotte began wrapping his palm firmly with the fresh bandages. It wouldn't do to survive tuberculosis only to lose one's life to an infection. "I suppose we'll both just have to find other ways of keeping busy."


	3. death is silence

And him so strong, and yet so quick he died,

And after year on year

When we had always trailed it side by side,

He went—and left me here!

We loved each other in the way men do

And never spoke about it, Al and me,

But we both knowed, and knowin' it so true

Was more than any woman's kiss could be.

What is there out beyond the last divide?

Seems like that country must be cold and dim.

He'd miss this sunny range he used to ride,

And he'd miss me, the same as I do him.

...

The range is empty and the trails are blind,

And I don't seem but half myself today.

I wait to hear him ridin' up behind

And feel his knee rub mine the good old way.

(_The Lost Pardner, Badger Clark, 1919_)

The sick and dying had been attended to, as best they could be. Charles and some of the other healthy, strong people rode out and found another place for the tribe to settle; Charles did his best to cover their tracks, ensuring that they might evade the army for as long as possible. He stayed for the burial of Eagle Flies, helped as he could- though he knew there was little what he could do to ease the pain of such a loss. He felt it himself, though he'd only known the young man a short time. They might have had their differences, but Charles didn't believe in the concepts of fate, revenge, or _'getting what's coming to you'_; only in people, and the pain they suffered or inflicted and how they chose to turn that pain into something better. He hoped that Eagle Flies' people could find something better, here.

Three weeks passed and he heard nothing from the gang.

Much more frighteningly, he heard nothing from Arthur.

Those long weeks were the longest he had gone without contact to them since before he joined at all. Not that they were truly the same people he had once known, at least not the majority of them.

He thought more than once that he might simply stay. Stay there among those who could at least halfway understand him, who he had helped towards a better future and who had welcomed his help and shared their warmth with him in return. It would not have been a bad life. But was it _his_? Most days, Charles was under the impression but he did not belong anywhere at all, and any attempt to insert himself somewhere was an unwelcome intrusion. Even with the Van der Linde gang he had, more often than felt entirely fair considering how good some were to him, felt still like he was a foreigner, unwelcome, lingering on the outskirts of everything. But the feeling could've been attributed to many things, anything from the harsh language used by Bill or Micah all the way to Charles' own more deep seated issues and lifelong reliance on isolation. He couldn't know for sure. He wasn't sure he could bear the answer. All in all, to Charles, staying any place he hadn't built from the ground up himself, or worked consistently over many months to contribute to felt like an imposition.

So he left. Packed his bags and left his new friends with solemn promises of contact and an oath to answer should they ever call, he left with firm embraces and sad looks passed between them. Rains Fall himself embraced Charles, an act which left him feeling humbled, and small. He hadn't felt such honest respect for a mentor and felt the sentiment in return in- well, he couldn't remember how long. He would miss him.

Two days later and Charles was standing over Susan Grimshaw's burnt corpse.

He couldn't just turn his back, never to return. Charles was the type of man who liked to finish what he started. Though some part of him had known this might be what he found, an even smaller part had begged it not be true- that part that had hungered so very insistently for anything even vaguely resembling _family_, kinship, anything beyond the stifling and constant pressure of a life in isolation. He looked solemnly down at Susan's almost unrecognizable body. What a price to pay for wanting to belong to something.

They hadn't been very close, Mrs. Grimshaw and him. He had some understanding for her, and had at times held peaceful conversations towards the end of a long day which he now looked fondly back on. She had come to his defence and he to hers more often than he had put much thought into before this moment. So he steeled himself for the tough work ahead and sought out a good, safe place to lay her to rest that he'd ridden by before, not far east from Elysian Pool. Everyone deserved to rest somewhere beautiful, peaceful, and especially away from where they had been killed. It wouldn't feel right to leave her there in that dark place.

To be entirely truthful, he had been much closer with the other women in the gang than with Susan. He and Sadie had spent many nights laughing quietly to themselves over a bottle, or chatting over the backs of their horses as they tended to them. He and Tilly, smart and friendly as she was had spent hours upon hours of time taking care of- well, really, _playing _with the chickens, and had stayed up well past any reasonable hour in long conversation while he helped her with her hair or, on the rare occasion, she with his. Mary-Beth was a kind girl as well. Many an afternoon he'd stood nodding along as she detailed the plots and character motivations of her short stories to him. Even Charles and Karen had been good friends, though not so close as Arthur was with her; he knew those two could veer into raucous banter on the flick of a switch. She'd confided in Charles of her feelings for Tilly, however, which was something he still felt honored to have been trusted with. He wondered if he was the only one who knew. He wondered why she chose him.

He smiled fondly as he thought on all the times they'd played checkers together, both never admitting to that Karen mostly only wanted practice to play it later with Tilly, and himself the same with Arthur. They had their fair share of good conversations that way.

The shovel he'd procured from the scattered remains of the camp supplies was rusted as it was old, with a short handle that only allowed for work to be done with it on ones hands and knees. Charles didn't mind, really, or at least not in the sense that he might abandon Susan on account of the discomfort. He stayed there an entire day, the majority of his time having been taken with rifling through the camp rubble for any signs of what might have happened and checking the perimeter for any signs of lingering danger or reason to wait and come back another time. He'd long since rebuilt a rough image of the final nights occurrences in his mind's eye; could really picture it all panning out. It wasn't a pleasant picture.

The grave got deeper. His hands had acquired new scratches. His knees grew sore, wrists cracking after the hours of effort, his hair slick with sweat from the hot sun beating down as he dug. Dug, dug, and dug until roughly six feet had been reached and he knew he'd almost gotten the physically hard part over and done with. He gently carried her corpse from its place and laid her with so much care as he could fathom down in the deep, deep grave; the stench and the sight invaded his every sense, taking all his will to push through. She deserved more dignity than this. A real funeral. He didn't know a thing about holding a funeral for a person, really; knew something or other about how to honor one, at least.

So he stood over her grave hours later, drenched and weighed by exhaustion and feeling wrung out like a dish towel, shovel in one hand and the roughly carved wooden crucifix he knew she would've liked to be buried under clutched tightly in the other. He knelt over the tightly packed earth, digging the crucifix he'd engraved her name into over the head of the grave and sat there for some time, lost in thought. "Thank you, Susan Grimshaw. For all you did for us."

He lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, brown fingers gone pink as the sunlight streamed right to the bone. The horizon was reddening in announcement of evening.

Molly's grave was next.

She'd been buried long since, with little to do to make her rest any more dignified. Charles hadn't risked a visit for the sake of his security in camp; it wouldn't have gone over well, surely, to pay respects to the grave of someone most the others would have spat on. One point of dispute between him and Grimshaw, that was, though he hadn't bothered to speak of it. Wasn't worth it.

The trek wasn't long. It didn't do to bury people close to where you lived, in concern of animals, and haunts. He could recall the near exact spot despite the fact it'd been left unmarked, recognizable only by the particularly limp and dry tree she'd been dumped near. The mound had mostly grown over, grass amassing above her. It was a shame, really- he found he held little blame for her. Didn't know why. She just didn't seem so unjust in her actions, except of course if it was true that she knowingly endangered Jack, and the women. He hadn't been there; what right did he have to make assumptions? Besides, Charles typically didn't believe in the idea of _getting what's coming to you_. So he stood there, and he lay a fistful of Scarlet Avens he'd found nearby on her grave, and carved her name into the bulk of the tree. _Molly O'shea, 1899, a good woman_. And that was it. That was all there needed be.

The ride back to the remnants of camp was quiet as it was stifling.

He couldn't stay too close for the night. He was already taking a risk, being alone and so close to the site. Anyone from the Murfree brood to the Pinkertons could come sniffing around. So he sidled up into the hills with Taima and his packs of meagre supplies in tow, intending to rest somewhere safe as possible.

Night came faster than he had the attention to anticipate. His bedroll smelled like horse. The fire was just a bit too small to offer any real comfort.

Charles felt very alone.

The sun had not eased in her severity since yesterday, having no mercy on the poor man toiling over the graves of his friends. Never did. He hugged as he hefted himself up the mountainside, to where the cliff hung out over the edge of the world. Arthur had been here, that much was obvious. Despite how time had quickly worn down the tracks, the marks of a real fight were too obvious to overlook. Blood spattered intermittently over the rocks, scraps of Arthur's flannel- which he could distinctly discern based on the ever-so-clear memory of him taking it off once not far from him when the day got hot. Boot prints. Hooves. Micah's worn hat, which he sent flying over the edge of the cliff by his heel. Sincere anger began to boil just under the surface as he pieced the scene together. Micah, leaving Arthur for dead. Dutch too, most probably.

He couldn't find Arthur.

Whether that was a relief or struck heartbreak in him, he couldn't quite tell just yet, everything getting to be just a little too much for him. Based on the wide circle of dried blood and the rough signs of a body being dragged from it, he could only assume the worst.

He could remember Arthur in those final days of his, when last they spoke and fought shoulder to shoulder. He'd seemed convinced of his own deterioration, a unique sense of determined hopelessness having settled into him. Hopeless, meaning how short a time he felt he still had on this earth- determined in that he meant to make something good of it. He looked at the scratches and the dirt marks still on his hands from Susan's burial and he wondered what did come of all of it. Was any of it worth it? Was there any meaning to be found here, any purpose?

That constant guiding arrow within him that had always directed him forwards in his life now felt skewed. For a long time his only intention had been to _survive_. To do whatever may be necessary to make a living of it, and retain enough humanity not to bring suffering along in his wake as he did so.

Charles settled by the edge of the circle of fading, flaky blood, turned dark by the stare of the sun. He couldn't bring himself to touch it, nor to move from the spot. He tucked his hands in his lap, hands interwoven, gaze drawn up and out to the rising sun.

Was this the last thing Arthur saw?

He brought a hand to cover his mouth, swiped upwards over his brow in a movement of frustration, of pent up exhaustion. It was too overwhelming, too much to sit here in the quiet and the sunlight and to see a mans final moment in everything but the flesh.

Death wasn't easy, for the dying nor those who lived to be haunted by it.

So he settled to work, to fill the quiet. Left the mountain and the thick blanket of grief draped over it, those cursed caves behind as he made to find somewhere more beautiful to honor his friend. The Pinkertons must have taken his corpse; to show and to brag like he was a legendary hunt and not a man, or to dispose of in whatever dishonorable way they found most satisfying.

He tried not to think on it.

…

The cliffs edge was beautiful. He thought on what Arthur had said to Lenny and Hosea, that one cool day on the Overlook.

_Face me to the West so I can see the setting sun, and remember all the good times we had_.

Arthur probably hadn't known he'd heard, or been listening at all. Probably didn't bother to know. Still. Charles kept those kinds of things in mind, tried to commit to memory the facts he learned about those around him. It was a tool usable only by those gifted with the attention span of a solitary person. He wondered sometimes how the rest of the gang had perceived him; he'd been on good terms with most all the women, and had seen Lenny as family. He'd rather turned to Hosea than Dutch when seeking the attention of a mentor. Even Javier, though his disposition towards him had grown cold towards the end had once been a dear friend to him.

The more he thought on it, the more he was forced to acknowledge the unspoken words that had hung in the air between he and Arthur for the extent of them knowing one another. He felt the sore pang of an opportunity missed, of a realization come too late. He thought on that first day they'd met. The spark that had shot up his arm like an electric current when they first shook hands. The way Arthur had held his gaze, firm and honest and so much less closed off than the rest of him. Charles had looked at him and seen some reflection of himself, there- behind the innumerable layers of cold calculation and all the seemingly immovable barriers he'd erected between himself and the rest of the world, he could see another man weighed down by regret, clinging to the hope for something better. A lost man seeking approval. Unflinchingly loyal, desperately holding on to the firm dogmatic belief that his actions and impact were ultimately for good cause. They'd not always seen eye to eye, but Charles had felt that mutual respect that tied them to one another, less tenuous than that which he held with the other men.

Anyone else might've thought it silly to give a grave to a dead man whose body could not be found. There'd only be the headstone he'd carved and the flowers he'd planted, with no body beneath to nourish them. But it didn't feel right to just leave, knowing someone so- knowing that _Arthur _had died here, with no memorial, nothing left to honor his passing.

Arthur wouldn't have thought it silly. He might have _said_ it was, but he'd have toiled over it nonetheless. Were the roles reversed it would undoubtedly be Arthur standing here, pushing seeds from his pack into the earth and ever so carefully carving him a headstone by which to be remembered. It would've been him, with tears caught tight behind his eyes, face hot with the pressure of resisting them as the dirt and the grime clung to his arms and his knees ached from the pain of kneeling so long. Charles felt older than he was, and read the text on the headstone aloud to himself.

_Whoever rescues a single life earns as much merit as though he had rescued the entire world._

He hoped it was what he would have wanted. Had heard him quote it in its entirety once, and been curious as to what it meant. Arthur had gladly shared, but hadn't been convinced of its applicability to himself.

Charles thought on Arthur and his duality, and all the ways he seemed to reshape himself to suit whomsoever he was taking orders from at that moment. Mostly, two ways of being. The first, the easier one; a brute. A faceless bulk of flesh and anger, come storming to you to take back what's his, or what belongs to whoever told him to go get it. And then- the man in the corner, pulling into himself, trying to mold his mass into something small, out of shame or out of shyness or the desire to be something he thinks he's not. He didn't quite _blame _him for being dead. He didn't blame him for much. Maybe he could blame him for the two little cuts on his hands he'd earned in carving him a headstone. Maybe he could blame him for the loneliness that now settled coolly into him.

That wasn't fair. Still. The cold realization that, yet again, there was no one left for him to turn to washed over him painfully. He'd been alone for so long. He'd taken what scraps of familial joy the gang could muster and had clutched it like a lifeline, like some compensation for a life lived alone. He figured it was a good thing that he always had room left in him for just a little more grief.

Kneeling there on the cliffside, with the cool air rushing over him in waves and the soft rustle of the underbrush around him, Charles began to cry.


	4. you want something new

In the back lounge, in between stops

Contingency plans in case the new one flops

Sometimes I wake up coughing up blood

Tonight Indianapolis, tomorrow the flood.

(Passaic 1975; _The Mountain Goats)_

**_Several months later…_**

* * *

"Nah, I don't think that's quite right."

"What do you mean, '_not right_'?"

"I mean, someone who just got goddamn _shot_ wouldn't be so keen to discuss those matters 'til they could at least see straight."

She huffed. He wasn't wrong. "This is the _final scene_."

Charlotte gave him a hard look, prompting him for further input. It wasn't like she had an abundance of people to ask for advice in these parts. Arthur sighed and set his charcoal down the middle of his journal. He was better now. Rough, never just as he was before, but better. He'd even developed a healthy pudge. His hair had grown to shoulder length, curly, a healthy flush to his face- he'd turned down all her offers to cut it, claiming that every slight difference in his appearance helped to hide from the law. They'd discussed those things long ago, her having come well to terms with the fact she was essentially hiding a criminal in her home. She'd come to the conclusion that she really didn't care. Over the winter, Charlotte finished the first draft of her first book. They were laughing, easygoing, sitting on the porch. She was so close to being done. "It's real good, Charlotte, awful good especially all up to this part, n'I know it's meant to be the closin' scene n'all but perhaps you oughta...I dunno, have a lil' time pass 'fore they get to talkin' and all. Just a bit of time t'heal up."

"That's a fair point. It took you nearly two weeks to say more than two coherent words to me."

He laughed, turning back to his sketches. "Sure did."

She peeked over at his work, admiring his progress. It always astounded her, the pace and consistency with which artists improved even when not meaning to, even far and long into life. "I just feel like this isn't the right end for him. The readers will need some more closure..but I don't know how."

Arthur glanced up at her while he drew. Smiled. "They're your characters. Shouldn't you know these things already?"

His teasing tone made her bristle, a bit flustered; she furiously scribbled down some notes. "Well- yes, they absolutely are, but sometimes there's things you can't do all on your own."

"Like write your own book."

"Oh, shut up Arthur!"

"I'm just kiddin', just kiddin'."

Winter had come and gone, harsh and cold and unkind to Arthur's lungs as it was to her psyche; they'd barely scraped through. But they had, in the end, both out the other end better for it and closer in kinship than they'd ever anticipated. He could stand now without help, could stand and walk and even run, as they'd proven by his mad chase after the rats that'd chosen to infest her barn early January. Things were looking up. His concerning cough had tapered down to a rare thing, frequent not so violent, not so bloody. These days she insisted he sat on the porch in the sun, with the warm clean air which she hoped brought his lungs some relief. It seemed to have worked. Her relief was immense- more often than she'd have liked to admit, Charlotte had worried she might lose him or grown fearful for her own health.

Charlotte looked over at his sketch. He'd grown accustomed to her seeing his work, no longer suffering from the shyness which once kept him from sharing. "What are you drawing now, Arthur?"

He didn't answer at first, large hands still filling in the hair of the person he drew. He sucked on his teeth. Uneasy- she could tell. Then he stopped all at once, a little too fast, as though if he got it from his line of sight quickly as possible he might not be so nervous. "Ain't my best work."

A man, leaning against a tree. A plume of smoke trailed up from the distant forest behind him. A horse grazed nearby. His hair was dark and long, a curtain around his face which cast harsh shadows over his broad, handsome nose; his face was round but strong, eyes turned downwards to the half-formed wooden stake he held in his hand, knife posed to carve. A great deal of effort had been put into this sketch. Remarkable, really, seeing as how Arthur had mostly only drawn quick studies as of late- or at least that was all he'd allowed her to see over his shoulder. She'd even seen herself in that book, once or twice. Rushed, charcoal staining the sides of his palms, trying to catch the world in a jar, in the mass of black lines and shadows. She was gentle as she took the book in hand, not daring flip to any other page for fear of interrupting what little privacy he still possessed in her company. Her voice was soft when she finally spoke. "Is this someone you knew?"

"Yes'm. Charles Smith." She glanced up to him, waiting for him to elaborate. He swallowed audibly. "He was...he was my friend. Miss him."

She looks at the sketch in all its patient, detailed attention. She's seen this face before in glimpses of his art, brief and passing, scrawled on the edges of newspapers or in the margins of his journal as he wrote; crossed out or set gracefully into the center of a page. This man, pages of studies of him, all from memory and as far as she could tell, nearly flawless. He drew few others with such reverence, besides perhaps for Sadie or for John, both of whom he had already told her much about. "I remember you mentioned him. Not as much as the others, though. Were you close?"

"Would've liked to have been," Arthur replied, quietly taking the journal back into his own lap. He sighed. "Yeah. We was close. Closer than I was with the other fellas, at least, besides perhaps for my family."

By _family_, he meant Dutch, Hosea, John, Tilly- that much she knew by now. Some part of her envied him sometimes, for the closeness of his family and for all the love he once had. Then her senses returned to her and she recalled they were both here now, alone as ever, with not another soul to their family name. Charlotte idly drew circles in her own writing journal, itching for distraction.

"Hey, Charlotte?"

She stopped drawing. "Yes?"

"How soon y'think you'll be off to publishin' that thing?"

"Soon. This month if I can just get this scene right. It should only take me a few days to be all done, thanks to your help."

"Mm."

She hesitated, trying to approach the subject gently. "I'm scheduled to meet a young Mr. Hill, due to be coming by train down from Chicago on his way to Saint Denis. He's a representative from a publishing house interested in my book. You can stay behind and rest, if you like, or- I suppose you could-"

"Y'know the date?"

"...The 26th."

They sat in silence, then, mulling over the news. They'd not been apart for more than a day or two in months now and, though neither Arthur nor Charlotte were particularly keen on a lifestyle of codependency cooped up in a house together, they'd grown to consider one another among the best of friends. She couldn't help the frustrating curiosity which gnawed at her; why did he ask?

He beat her to the punch. Cleared his throat. "I think...I reckon I ought to be going soon, Charlotte." Before she could bother to interrupt, sputtering half-baked arguments he pushed on; "I've been thinkin' for a while now, I've right overstayed my welcome. You didn't want no sick man livin' in your guestroom all year, I know, n'I-"

"Arthur, you're no trouble to me, honestly! You-"

"You know the type of men after the type of men like me. Y'know the price on my head, though they prob'ly think I'm deader than dead. If the wrong person sidles up to this here house and sees me, knows me, then I've doomed us both, y'hear? I don't know what trouble the others've been gettin' up to. I miss 'em, too, Charlotte, I miss 'em.

She understood more than most might have, really- some days she felt she was lost and untethered from the rest of the world. No one's wife, no one's daughter. Not related or connected to anyone at all. Charlotte looked at him and saw a man worn down by time, glad of her company but still itching to be elsewhere, uneasy in constance having been raised in chaos. The idea of living with as many people at once as he had so many times in his life was unimaginable to her. She couldn't fathom the size of the hole that absence could leave in a person, the abscess it caused. He was a lonely man. She knew that. He had to leave eventually. She knew that.

Arthur didn't speak a word, just waiting.

"Okay." Her hand covered his. "You must promise you'll write me. Please."

"Of course I will," He replied with a scoff, as though it was to be assumed from the start. "Often as I can, Charlotte, promise. I'll writecha."

"We've only been friends a short time, I know, but-"

"I get it. I do."

They sat on the porch, holding hands, taking in the peace and the quiet of Roanoke Ridge.

* * *

_The 26th…._

"Take Jimmy." Charlotte said with the most forceful tone she could muster, thrusting the horses' tack in Arthur's direction.

"-What?"

"Take Jimmy," She said once more. "I know draft horses aren't the most ideal for the kind of riding you do, but he's a good horse. He's big and dumb but clear enough of mind to always find his way home, so there will be no need to worry of losing him. A loyal old fool."

"I thought I was the only one of those around these parts."

"Oh, hush!" As she dug through her bag of supplies to double check every item, she could feel the fits of anxiety which so often troubled her bubbling right beneath the surface. Her hands tingled, head light and posture tense. Her mind buzzed with nervousness. She couldn't bear to hold still more than a minute, keeping herself busy packing and repacking Missy's saddlebags.

Arthur didn't move towards the horse. She stared, trying for a teasing look to urge him on. "Go on now, why don't you introduce yourself or something? Jimmy's particular when it comes to manners."

It seemed he wasn't about to play along. He stood, one hand resting on the satchel she'd leant him, once among Cal's most treasured possessions. It didn't bother her to pass it along. He cleared his throat. "I've already taken enough the time of your life, Charlotte, I ain't about to take none'a that which sustains it."

"He doesn't sustain me a bit. The stubborn old coot is as good for wagon-pulling as he is for eating."

"I can't take nothin' more from you, Charlotte. 'Specially not somethin' so important as a horse."

"Please don't be so stubborn, Arthur. We both know you'll make it no more than a handful of days lacking a horse, and besides! Won't it have been much more a waste of my time to help you only for you to die of stubbornness rather than to take my horse?"

"What if something happens to Missy? And I ain't stubborn! I-"

"Missy's a good horse, Arthur, young and spry, with not a day's difference to her health since she was a foal. You'd best put those concerns to rest, I won't have you worrying over me when not even in my company."

"I'll worry all I damn want. Would do it an awful lot less if I weren't robbin' you blind of your only draft horse!"

Charlotte gave him a long, hard glare, the kind she'd given him time and time again when he'd foolishly tried to haul himself up to hunt when he could barely stumble into the kitchen, or the time she'd caught him just about to smoke a cigar. He didn't quite wilt beneath its intensity, but his confidence faltered and hands latched onto the horses reins. "Fine, fine," he grumbled, and quietly went about the business of preparing Jimmy to ride.

"Will you be going into Annesburg with me, Arthur?"

"...No, I think it'd be better I didn't. Wouldn't want you t'be seen in such bad company."

"Oh, of course not. Whatever would I do were my fine reputation betrayed? Woe is me."

Arthur laughed, swatting at the air in her direction as he patted Jimmy's neck. "Oh, shuddup."

"I'm incapable of _shudding up_, as you so eloquently put it, my dear Mr Morgan."

"Pff." Arthur grinned, then gestured with his open arms. "C'mere. Mind if I hug you?"

"Not at all."

And so they did. Charlotte sunk into the warmth and the immensely strong embrace of Arthur's arms, the feeling of familiar comfort draining all the nervous energy from her one second at a time. He rested his chin atop her head, humming, swaying ever so slightly to and fro. She felt suddenly struck by the full force of reality, and the truth that when she returned to her cabin, it would be empty once again. She'd be alone. Charlotte Balfour, with too much money to know what to do with and a house with too many empty rooms to feel like a home.

"I'll miss you, Arthur."

He pressed his cheek to the side of her face. "Thank you f'all you've done. I'll miss you too, Charlotte. Don't be alone too long, now, you go publish that book'n get famous or whatever you're seekin' to do. It'll all go well, I've no doubt."

"I know." Charlotte breathed into the sparse space between them. "You write to me, you hear? You must write."

"I will."


	5. i still seek more

If you are not a better person tomorrow than you are today, what need have you for a tomorrow?"  
(– Rebbe Nachman of Breslov.)

* * *

The newspaper in his hands was rough, stained by the rain and the remaining ring left from a cup of coffee. Aged. " The Lady Of The Manor ," he read aloud, testing the name for its strange familiarity. "The Lady of the…."

He stood over the body of some nasty feller, a man with crooked teeth who smelled of whiskey and who'd gone carelessly riding by with a young woman on the back of his horse who he hadn't bothered to shut up in her cries for help. She'd long since fled the scene, wanting no part in any of Arthur's business any more than with her kidnapper. He hoped she was well. Regardless.

It clicked as he skimmed through the remainder of the review below. Written by Leslie Dupont, an up and coming young author. Dupont, dupont- that was the surname which Mary-Beth Gaskill had typically employed when playing a stranger. The first name typically varied. He would have chalked it up to mere coincidence had it not been for the fact that he'd once overheard Charles, Tilly and her holding a long discussion about almost this exact plot. He did recall Tilly calling it a lil' bit trite , don't you think ?

It seemed she didn't think so.

The dead man's horse whinnied as he leant against it, far off enough from the road not to worry of being seen. A fly buzzed past. It was the first sign he'd seen of anyone from the gang, this happenstance newspaper book review he'd found tucked in the dead man's bag right alongside an old rotten apple and a hearty clip of money. Just a scrap of evidence, but clear enough for him to see the truth; Mary-Beth had made it out safely, and had finished her first book. Warmth spread through him, the relief tangible as it was belated; all he could've hoped for in his near-sacrifice was to give someone a chance, most of all the Marstons, but really to anyone who deserved a second go at life. He wondered then- what about Tilly? Karen, Sadie-

Charles?

The swell of emotion that threatened to well up was quickly suppressed, tucked away into the corner of his mind where he stored all other such whims and frustrations. All the things he didn't feel like admitting to himself, even post-mortem. It was always the hardest admitting something to yourself. Tell someone else all you want; deny their reply, but you can't deny yourself, can't deny the voice that narrates your life. So he tucked it all away. Folded it up, the newspaper too, noting the address below which decreed it'd been published in Saint Denis and where to mail fan letters or inquiries to Miss Dupont . He decided he had some mail due to send, and some social calls to make. Throwing the paper down on the man's corpse but for the ripped out page with Mary-Beth's location which he slipped into his new journal, Arthur moved to cut free the man's horse.

He paused, looking her up and down. She'd seen ugly things, that much could be assumed, but she'd come to no harm during her time with this rat of an owner. In fact she looked to be a strong horse- relatively expensive, even, especially considering the condition of her origins but in truth he wouldn't have been surprised to learn she was stolen, or won in some high-stakes match of gambling. A dappled black Thoroughbred, she looked like, strong in temperament as she was in her gait. He glanced back at Jimmy, Charlotte's kindly loaned draft horse and thought- well, shit .

He'd find his way home, if urged. Was dumb and loyal enough for it. Arthur had insight in these things, and could definitely attest to it himself. So he did. Changed the saddles- hoped Charlotte wouldn't be too bothered by the flimsy one sent back to her, a rushed note tucked into one saddlebag with a promise of his safety, and a tease that a dumb man shouldn't ride a dumb horse for the risk of mutual deterioration. Arthur sent Jimmy off with a slap to the hind and a sharp **git **, boy, go on home and went right on ahead to steal the dead fellow's horse.

There's no stealing from dead men, so they say. Not like he'd be needing it.

"What's your name then, girl?" He asks, coughs, and unfortunately the horse doesn't reply.

"Ought t'be somethin' fancy, for such a fancy creature as yourself. Can't be out here with somethin' so simple as Millie, or Maybelle . Pff." The horse huffed. He took it as a sign of agreement, patting her neck. "Y'aint a cow ."

She flicked her tail in staunch agreement. The road stretched far ahead of them.

* * *

Mary-Beth Gaskill ran to him the instant she laid eyes on him.

Disregarding how filthy and exhausted he was by nigh two days on horseback, she fell into his arms in a flurry of overwhelmed excitement, evidently taking all her efforts not to burst into tears. Arthur almost tipped over from the unanticipated weight taking him by surprise, a rough laugh rumbling through him as he hugged her back, holding her close as was proper and kind. "Arthur- oh, Arthur you silly old coot, I-"

"Shh." He glanced around with narrowed eyes, trying to parse who within earshot might've caught any of what she said. "Abraham, while I'm here. Jus' Abraham Morgan."

"That's a terrible name!"

He sputtered, grinning as he pulled back to hold her at elbows distance. "That right, Mrs Dupont ?"

His country hick accent molding around the french name must've been awful funny, judging from the echoing peal of her laughter. The delight that flooded through him was just a hair's width from too much for him, having dredged through knee deep grief and unpleasantry for the last months. Though they mightn't have been the closest of the gang, he'd always seen Miss Mary-Beth and Miss Tilly in a good light, like his dear and beloved little sisters. Wondered, really, if they saw him the same at all and if they did, how the current circumstances may have changed that view. He watched as she stepped back, wiping the tears from her freckled face, hair come a bit loose in some places from her usual tied-back style. Maybe it hadn't changed as much as he'd feared.

Mary-Beth snorted, tears still wet on her face. "You smell like horse. It's rank !"

"I know, I know n'I'm sorry for it but there's little to be done just yet. You know anywhere we might be able to talk a lil', no eaves around which to drop n'all?"

"Of course not, Mr. Abraham, this is Saint Denis after all. The walls have eyes." She stared at him for a beat, then burst into giggles. "I'm just pullin' your leg! C'mon old man, I've got my own quarters n'all by now. No more sleepin' with Karen snorin' in my ear on one side and Sadie complainin' of it on the other all hours, oh no. Would say I've moved up in the world were it not accountin' for the actual height of my lodgins, if you follow."

They walked for some time, leaving the train station that they'd agreed upon in their letters to meet in front of, coming closer to the midpoint of town where the shabbier structures of the regular folk melded in amongst the brick and mortar constructions of the wealthy. Arthur pulled his horse gently along by her reins, her ears perked up in interest and mild wariness as she took in the crowded clamor of city life. Mary-Beth told him about her book and its surprising level of success, considering her status as an amateur and a newcomer. The fact the most readers hadn't seen her face nor knew her real name only helped.

"...and, well, Tilly and I've been gettin' along just as well as we always have, though I've been taken with my book and she's been taken by her own work. Don't know if you knew but she found Karen- I know ! Found her over'n that shabby lil' rat-infested back-holler hole of a saloon up town- not enthusiastic of that establishment, I'm not, seen one too many drunks stumble 'cross my way and Karen among 'em-"

"They're both alright," Arthur spoke, tone half question and half a sigh of relief. The pessimistic side to him had doubted Karen's safety. Her mind and grip on things had seemed to slip a bit from her control, towards the end, something he now regretted not having worked more to help with. Some things couldn't be helped by just anyone, he supposed, just glad she'd fallen into the healthy company of Tilly Jackson.

"They are." She looped one arm through his elbow; gave his wrist a squeeze just as reassuring as her smile. "You did a good thing for us, y'know that? Gave the most of us a good chance to get out, didn't put in any effort to drag us back."

"That's just basic decency, Miss Dupont, ain't nothin' to be praised." He followed as she guided him beneath an archway and out into a back-alley courtyard. He moved to hitch up his horse by the other two near the archway, both drinking idly from a public trough sat there.

Weren't many people around to hear, besides for some rowdy looking young boys playing with sticks off in the corner, distracted by their own business. He swallowed. "You...you ain't heard nothin' from the Marstons, have you?"

Her face pulled taut. "No, I haven't." Her arm slipped from his and she seemed to collect herself, once again drawing up the more cheerful face she was so very good at conjuring. "I've got to ask who this fine lady you've got in your company is, though. Besides myself of course. Is she a Thoroughbred?"

"Kieran teach y'that?"

She swatted at his arm, and he cringed inwardly a bit at having thoughtlessly brought up such a painful memory. She seemed to take only the happier part of it into account, leaving away the condition they'd last seen the man in. "I know plenty I need to know about horses all on my own! Not hard to notice the name of such a pretty one. What's her name, anyways?"

"Shoshanah, I think." He scratched the back of his neck.

"You think ?"

"Yeah, she's Shoshanah. Always liked the name. She's a fancy thing, bit high opinion of herself I reckon."

"Ought to've named her Molly if that's the case," Mary-Beth laughed, expression falling away into something rather sad for one fleeting moment. Her voice evened out. She brushed along the horses shining neck. "She's a pretty thing ...you must miss your Amma."

"Amma was a good horse. Did me good, in the end, got me far n'saved my life far more'n I'd deserved." Amma died too soon; Arthur still missed her so much. He tried for a smile, feeble as it was false. Tried then for a distraction. "No use millin' about here. You gonna show me to your lodgin's or shall I wait for an invitation first, m'lady Dupont ?"

She scoffed, tugging him across the courtyard and into one of the smallest corner-side doorways. The door creaked as it pushed open into the cramped space of her quarters; a table and two mismatching chairs were planted square in the middle of the entryway some few feet away from the entrance. Arthur made to respectfully take off his hat, only remembering at the last moment that he hadn't one. The place was clouded by the thick chemical smell of the city. Coal burned hot somewhere not far off, the stench evident, though blocked to some degree by the shut windows across the way that looked over nothing but a brick wall in a misshapen alley. The sitting room was sparse, with a chest and a small table, some chairs upon which to sit and an enormous pile of books. He thought he wouldn't be wrong to guess that all the literature might easily have been the most expensive thing in the place. One door lead left and another right, both firmly shut.

"It's got no hot water," Mary-Beth lamented as she shoved the door closed behind him with the full force of her weight, "but the furnitures sick-free and there's windows and room and no need for to share it with a roommate."

"No room for one neither," Arthur quipped without thinking, then biting his tongue. Quickly tried to re-acquaint himself to his manners. "It's a nice place you've got, Mary-Beth. I'm glad you've found somewhere nice t'settle."

"It's yours as well long as I'm here in the city," she replied, milling about the counter and canisters of coffee there. "You're welcome to stay the night here in the front room, can pull out some bedding for you. I'll be leaving tomorrow morning t'head down south for some work with my writing. A fella from some bank offered to strike up a deal with me. You still take your coffee black?"

"Yes ma'am, and thank you. Not a lover of the brown gargle myself." She shrugged and poured it on to boil. "Tomorrow y'say? Why so quick?"

"Not runnin' from you if that's what you're implyin', Arthur, and it's scarcely quick seein' as I've been living here some months now! The book business is a fast one and one you can't anticipate much about."

"Well, then, I'll try not t'overstay my welcome. I'll be out 'fore midday." He nodded gratefully as she placed the mug of coffee in front of him, the steam pleasantly wafting in the air, staunching the chemical city-smell. "You mentioned Tilly was in these parts, before."

"Yessir." Mary-Beth plopped unceremoniously down onto the chair across from him. "Up in the nicer parts of town, she's taken up residency alongside Karen, I believe, workin' a live-in job. Domestic help."

"Domestic help," he repeated, the doubt ringing clear in his voice. Could almost hear the echo of every instance Susan had chided the girls for their so-called laziness in regards to laundry, and the average chores of the like. Couldn't imagine Karen working to appease the whims of some stuck-up aristocrats wife. "That's a ...surprise."

"No more surprisin' than myself bein' a writer and yourself bein' alive , I'd think."

"Fair point." Arthur hummed, and drank from his coffee. Bit lighter than he preferred. He didn't mind.

"Why'd you ask?"

"Thought I might like to see the girls, if they're here in the city so close. Make sure they're alright. If there's nothin' I can't do them for, just- I'd just like t'see 'em."

Mary-Beth nodded. Her hands flew from her abandoned cup of coffee and moved instead to roughly rifle through the stack of newspapers and documents that'd accumulated on the other end of her kitchen table, finally coming upon whatever she sought with a little ' yes!' of success. She slid it across the table to him.

Matilda J. Jones.

An address.

"Matilda. Thought she hated bein' called that."

"You think I love the name Leslie ?"

"Uh- why'd y'choose it?"

"It sounded charmin' with the surname!"

They both burst into laughter, Arthur's interrupted here and there by a rough near-cough and the swipe of a hand over his coffee-stained lips, grinning to have reconnected so happily with his old friend. He hadn't expected it to be this easy. Had anticipated anger or fear, maybe, because that was always what he expected from people who came face to face with him, but nothing like this. He smiled, really smiled, and reached to squeeze her hand in gratitude. Hope didn't feel quite so distant now.

* * *

The first punch hit harder than he'd anticipated.

Blood gushed, hot and unpleasant, down from his nose; Charles brusquely swiped at it with the back of his arm, continuing to go in wary circles around the other man. He dodged another strike to the face, felt a push against his back from someone in the mass of shouting, gambling drunkards that circled them. He'd already forgotten the other mans name. Fake, invented and inflated with grandeur, much like his own alias. He'd had a little less say in the title chosen for him.

He'd been called a lot of things in his time. A mountain of a man . Strong as an ox, unbeatable, frightening, stoic, strong as twelve men . Nothing more respectful of his nature overall; no title acknowledged his humanity, or his ability to die just as any other. His ability to be hurt. He didn't necessarily want to be seen as anything but strong- that was part of his survival, and what had gotten him so far in such a dangerous world- but sometimes it just felt false. Like a mask he wore for convenience, fused to his face over time.

Someone in the crowd yelled, "Get him! Bring him down!"

He caught the other man in an uppercut. Blood spattered in the air. A tooth, he thought, went flying, a brutal choking sound coming from the assaulted opponent. He reeled and coughed and came back in swinging, a hot rage in his eyes that Charles hadn't quite anticipated. He won most of these fights, excluding of course when he was paid much higher for to fail. He hated this work, every part of it. A hand caught him square in the front of the face and he could feel the blood pounding there, the cartilage of his nose throbbing so painful it almost went numb. His hands tingled and heart pounded in his chest, furious and fast as the crowd roared louder, raucous laughter and the disgusting smell of whiskey on the men's breath gusting over and around them, the back-alley stench strong and unrelenting. He steeled himself, breathed hard, knowing that he'd surely come out of this with a half-broken nose and covered in blood.

He wasn't paid to fail this time.

The man swung to punch again, emboldened by the two successful previous hits; he didn't expect for Charles to grab him by the forearm as he dodged it, the full force of his frustration serving to throw him to the ground. The crowd parted in a roar, rolling back as the man slipped on the slick cobblestone, fumbling for the grip to push himself up again. Charles didn't give him the chance. This wasn't the place for fair fights. The same would be done to him, were the positions reversed. Maybe worse.

Following three hard, firm kicks to the side the man relented, throwing up a trembling hand in feeble surrender.

Spitting the blood from his mouth Charles turned from the raucous crowd that jostled him, pulled at his arms and back in frustration or delight, their debts due and gambles made. He shook them off and tried to hold a firm gait, quickly pulling up his shirt from where he'd left it, attending to the collection of his due winnings. The crowd filtered out, quieted and drifted back off to their wives and their bars and their business, scattering in all directions as they could. The money felt heavy in his pocket.

He looked back at the crowd. There stood the man- a Mr Hugh Langston , he remembered now, bloodied and clutching his hip with both hands, being tugged on demandingly by some man clearly frustrated by his loss, his brother Bill by his side. He'd beaten Bill in a fight too, not more than a week ago. The Langstons had a look in both their eyes that told Charles he ought to be getting out of here, and fast.

He'd had some trouble finding work out in these parts. Saint Denis was a great place to get lost, a good place to lose yourself as it was to lose all your money quick. So he did grunt work. Fights in back alleys when nothing else paid better. Lifting boxes and bins in nondescript factories, working some nights as a bodyguard for the rare rich folk who thought him suitable. He'd recently struck up a deal with the local fence, agreeing to hunt some much needed items, find some exotic feathers for a collector or two, the like. If he was truthful with himself, he didn't know where to start.

Walking in a brusque pace down the side streets, Charles tried to avoid calling any more attention to himself than his bloodied nose and clothing already did. At the moment he was just trying to keep himself and Taima alive and well. His mind tossed and turned over whether he should skip town tonight or not. How mad had his opponent really been? There were more jobs to do here. Most of all he was hungry. Frustrated. Alone. Still, he refused to allow the melancholy and the stress of things overtake him, or drive him to destitution.

He didn't mind people, liked them and their company much more than most people might assume of him. He just didn't like the idea of strangers becoming too cognizant of him. City people alarmed him; Charles didn't like to think that they might recognize him, become familiar with his routines as he did with theirs, with the laundry ladies, paper boys, the factory workers and domestic helpers that went by him in their mornings. Didn't like to think that they might know which way he walked, what clothes he wore, which people he spoke to. For some it was a safety net. For him, it was a breach of privacy. It was for this reason that he rarely allowed himself to drift off in his thoughts as he walked, focusing intensely on each step, peering into the faces of passerby, trying to keep himself as small and nondescript as he could for a man of his stature. It usually didn't work. But he noticed, still, the details of the world around him and all those who passed by the same roads. It surprised him sometimes how people lived so in their own worlds, always on the same paths and same roads, completing the same tasks day after day. Didn't they get tired?

He saw the way the woman with the straw hat stared at him, aghast at the state of his face. He saw how the paperboy urgently waved a newspaper in his direction, already disillusioned to the world and its roughness, not caring at all about who might buy his papers so long as he got a coin in his pocket by the end of it. He saw the man who walked by in his nice clothes, far too nice to be about these parts, and how he leered at the nanny that stood at the curb with her charge, waiting for the wagons to pass. Maybe it was just the paranoia talking.

And then he saw something he hadn't accounted for. A face he hadn't thought he'd see again.

"You're kiddin' me."

He just stared.

"What in the goddamn hell are you doin' here?"

"Karen?"

Karen Jones, in the flesh, stood right in his way. She clutched a bulky package in her arms, seemingly frozen to the spot. "If I didn't have this box I might just do a jig. I didn't know you were still alive and kickin', Mr Smith, though I guess it's most likely you might make it considering the other odds."

Charles didn't know what to do. At a loss for words, but still geared towards getting out of this area- he didn't risk a look over the shoulder, but could sense they ought not to linger- he gestured towards her things. "Suppose so. Can I help you with that?"

"No, you sure can't, thank you! I won't have you gettin' blood on this thing, I just walked a pilgrimage and a half t'pick it up."

Anxiety plucked at his frayed nerves. "I'd like to catch up with you, Miss Jones, but we shouldn't hang around this area too much longer. Either we go back to where I'm staying at the moment and talk, or we split here, for your own good."

"Alright, lead the way. I've got time." She quickly repositioned the box in her arms, staying close to his side as they crossed the street, him guiding her down the right streets. "And it's Mrs Jackson, while we're in Saint Denis. Carrie Jackson."

He smiled, quick and teasing. "Mm. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs Jackson."

"How 'bout you?"

He urged her quickly as he could down an alley, listening for company. "Nothing. Just my name."

He glanced back from where they came and saw no one noteworthy or concerning. Nothing. Just some school-children passing by. A man absorbed in his book. He still felt followed.

Karen was staring at him, waiting. "We gonna go wherever you're takin' me or are you gonna look around nervous as hell all day?"

Shoving aside the cold chill of anxiety that still drove him forwards, he briefly allowed the relief to flow over him. Who knew an old friends face could bring such comfort? He had missed Karen. She could cuss like a sailor, and drink like one too. She even looked a bit like one today- her hair was shorter than before and clung in tight curls over her ears, dressed in a white button-up men's shirt tucked neatly into her dark green skirt. A healthy flush colored her cheeks. He realized he was staring. "Sorry. What have you got in the box?"

She shrugged, plucked idly at the ribbon on top. They continued together on their way. "Well, it's really nothin' fancy but that's pretty much the point. It's a present for Tilly."

"Tilly? She's alright?"

"She's just fine, yeah."

"I'm relieved. I was worried about both of you. Here, up the stairs." He herded Karen up the stairs down the back of the saloon he'd been keeping a room in, hoping they'd taken enough strange turns to get the Langstons off the trail.

She clicked her tongue, glancing about the halls of the saloon. "Should've asked me for a drink first, Mr Smith, could've told you I've already got a woman back home."

"Come on." Charles pushed open the door to his room with his back, gesturing that she enter. Breathing a little easier now that they were out of the public eye, he tried for conversation. "Can I see what you got her?"

She grinned, obviously a bit giddy over the gift.

The box was of a soft, light colored material. Inside was a white button up shirt bespeckled in soft blue spots, and beneath were a pair of folded blue men's trousers. He peered at it from a foot away, trying not to touch so as to heed her warning about his bloodied hands. "I never knew Tilly was fond of wearing pants."

"Well- not everyone can be as confident as Mrs Adler!"

"Mm."

"It's more complicated than that, sure, but don't know how much I ought to tell you without askin' her first." She shut the lid, setting it aside on the dresser. "I know she'll have all these worries 'bout the cost, but really it weren't any trouble. She and I've been working, doing the domestic help for this lady uptown, staying in her helpers quarters 'til we've got the funds to get out of here."

"Why did you buy them?" He hoped his voice was as free of judgement as he meant it to be.

"Because.. 'cause I think she doesn't always believe me when I say we're gonna get out and do what we promised each other we'd do."

"Hmm. What'd you promise?"

"A life. A real life, not runnin' with a gang and robbin', always pickpocketing to get by. A house. Little farm. She wants goats. She says she wants to name one Lillybell. I just want Tilly to know we're only stuck here for a bit, you understand? That soon we'll be out. Wear what we want, take care of our own things and not be cleaning up after nobody."

Charles nodded, moving to the counter where he kept a basin of clean, boiled water. "I understand. If there's any way I can help, now you know where to find me."

"Yeah, this shithole."

He snorted, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt to clean the blood off him. Would have to take a bath later to get truly clean, but didn't mind waiting if it meant he'd have some companionship for a while. When was the last time he'd really just spoken to a friend?

"I know what you want to ask."

"What's that?"

"About me. How the hell I'm still breathing." She sighed. "I'm off the drink."

He said nothing. Nodded. The water was room temperature, not the refreshing cold he'd been hoping for as he washed his face of the crusted, stinking blood that clung to him from the nose down.

"Have you taken it up?" Karen asked, gesturing broadly to him as she took a seat on the bed, sitting inelegantly with her legs crossed in her lap. He squinted at the sight of her shoes up on the bed like that. "Drinking."

"No."

"I'm hardly in a place to judge. Just asking."

"Would I lie?"

She sucked on her teeth. A frown hung on her face when she asked, "Then what's got you in such a rush? All bloody like this? Is it gamblin'? Fightin'? You owe somebody?"

"Something like that."

"What kinda business've you gotten yourself tied up in that'd end in you lookin' like a gutted rabbit?"

"It's not that bad."

"It sure ain't pretty."

"Mmhm."

"Charles."

He stopped scratching at the crusted blood that still clung after washing, turning, expectant, alert.

"You should stop, Charles."

"I'm not drinking, Karen, and I've made no bets."

"I don't mean that, don't be thick. I mean- this . Gettin' yourself all bloodied up for a couple dollars. I thought we all-"

"We all...what?"

"I thought we all gave up on thievin' and fightin' to get by."

"Where did you get the extra money?"

"Huh?"

"For that." Charles pointed at the box. Not accusingly, just clear, inquisitive, asking for honesty. He moved to sit by her. Karen didn't look him in the eyes. Couldn't.

"I- fine. I mean no more hurtin' people, Charles, or lettin' ourselves get hurt for the chance at some small winnin's. Nobody's winnin' when you've got your nose broke."

"...It's not broken."

"Like I said- ain't pretty."

"Never claimed to be."

They sat quietly for a moment, Karen with her hands in her lap and a lamenting look in her eyes. It seemed she'd softened over time, and grown tougher all the same, though he wouldn't have thought it possible. She didn't smell like whiskey any more or slur when she laughed. She walked more surely, unburdened by her worries and her fears. He wondered what her and Tilly's life must be like, and couldn't help the mild sting of jealousy that stuck in him since her mentioning of their dreams for the future. A farm. Some peace. Escape. He had underestimated his memory of solitude, back when he'd chosen to go it alone again. Had underestimated how much more it hurt once you'd had a taste of closeness, had even a passing dream of something better.

"What else do you suggest I do?" He asked honestly, turning to look her in the eye. It took her a second to formulate a good reply.

"I heard from one of my friends there's jobs up in Lakay and Lagras controllin' the gator population. They say there's just too many. Saint Denis high society wants to spread out- can't do that with a bunch of monsters bitin' at their ankles."

He frowned in distaste. Didn't like the cause, but certainly needed the opportunity. "That's a good idea."

"It'd get you out of the city, too," she said, and reached over to scratch at the bridge of his nose where blood still clung. He wrinkled his nose, grinning, pulling back. "seeing as you're not too popular."

"We'll have to see if the Gators like me any better."


End file.
